Sins of the Mother by Victoria Christopher Murray Page A

wide, “I haven’t changed a thing.” Then, with a more somber look and tone, “I’m keeping everything the same so that when you come home . . .”
    It was a slow fade—the way the edges of her lips easeddown and her smile went away. She shook her head. “Start selling the furniture.”
    So cold, yet so cute.
But he wasn’t fooled. She’d come straight to his apartment, straight to him. “If you’re not coming home”—his steps closed the gap between them—“then what’re you doing here?”
    “I just came by to tell you to stop.” She held up the flowers. “Save your money.”
    He shrugged. “It’s my money.”
    “And you’re wasting it.”
    Shaking his head, he said, “You’re wrong. My plan’s already working. You’re here, aren’t you?”
    Her expression showed that she was more amused than stumped. “I told you why I’m here.” She shrugged her coat from her shoulders and strutted by him. Pulling kitchen cabinets open as if she still lived there, she searched until she found the glass vase that had been one of their wedding gifts.
    As she filled the vase with water, Brian leaned against the wall, folded his arms, and watched the scene that he’d dreamed of unfold. This was just how he imagined her—coming home from work, still wearing her burgundy tailored suit that showed just how much time she spent at the gym, and doing something totally mundane, like setting flowers in a vase.
    He held back a sigh as she stuffed the elegant red, pink, and white design of roses, daisies, and lilies inside. Once done, she swept past him again and centered the floral arrangement on the living room table. He was still standing in the same place when she picked up her coat.
    “Anyway, thanks again for the flowers. But I think I’ll leave these with you. My apartment is filled with the ones you sent me three days ago.” She tilted her head when she added, “You
really
need to stop.” She frowned a little, waiting for him to speak. He didn’t, and she just shrugged.
    But when she made her move toward the door, he jumped in her path. “Have dinner with me.”
    “What?”
    “Since you’re here, have dinner with me. I’ll cook. Or we can order in—whatever you want.”
    “I don’t want anything.” She frowned. “No!”
    “What are you afraid of ?”
    “I’m not afraid, Brian.” She wrapped her coat’s belt around her waist. “I’m just smart enough not to go backward.” She paused, then added, “I never put a comma where God’s put a period.”
    He laughed. “You can come up with all the clichés you want, but I have one, too.”
    He could tell that she didn’t want to ask, but it was her natural curiosity that made her say, “And your cliché is . . .”
    “I always win.”
    She bowed her head just a bit as she stepped around him, but even though she tried to hide it, he didn’t miss her smile.
    The way she didn’t say good-bye, the way she didn’t even close the door behind her, made Brian laugh out loud. Oh, yeah—he was getting to her. Finally!
    Back in the living room, he reached for his glass and turned it upside down, swallowing the little bit of wine that was left. Then he raised the empty wineglass into the air—a salute to himself.
    “Yup,” he said, “I always win.”

Nineteen
    A LEXIS SLAPPED HER HAND AGAINST the steering wheel.
    Why did I do that?
    Going to Brian’s apartment had never been part of her plan. After a day filled with client presentations at the advertising agency she owned, her desire was to get to her town house before the evening news ended, strip down to the suit she’d been born with, and then soak away her pressures in her Jacuzzi tub.
    But just as visions of her stress-free evening danced in her head, her assistant had popped into her office with the bouquet.
    “You got some more!” Kennedy had exclaimed with a giggle.
    Alexis hadn’t even looked up; she knew what her assistant was talking about. Grudgingly, she had taken the